On March 14, cartoonist Poko Murata wrote online that his HIV awareness billboard received public decency complaints in Ni-chome, Tokyo's biggest gay district.

The billboard was commissioned by ViiV Healthcare, which defended Murata and said he didn't break obscenity laws. Fellow artist Yuji Kato applauded the 'upbeat, warm, inclusive' depiction of Tokyo's gay male community in the drawing.

Shinjuku's district officers told Murata to edit his billboard in January. He submitted this new version below.

In March, the modified version was rejected again by the Shinjuku district office because it "showed underwear."

"They told me that residents in Ni-chome [Tokyo's gay district] were uncomfortable with my drawing," Murata wrote online. "And that I should edit it if we plan to continue running awareness campaigns."

]]>https://www.buzzfeed.com/connorkemuo/shinjuku-murataTue, 18 Mar 2014 21:10:02 -0400<b>But barely-dressed fembots in public are OK.</b>connorkemuononadult15 Comics For Anyone Struggling To Explain What It Means To Be Queerhttps://www.buzzfeed.com/connorkemuo/honest-comics-for-the-queer-soul
G is not the only letter in LGBTQ.

And making more people feel at home in the LGBTQ community.

As well as everywhere else.

]]>https://www.buzzfeed.com/connorkemuo/honest-comics-for-the-queer-soulTue, 11 Mar 2014 14:59:04 -0400<b>G is not the only letter in LGBTQ.</b>connorkemuononadultWhy I Stay Closeted In Asiahttps://www.buzzfeed.com/connorkemuo/why-i-stay-closeted-in-asia

Christmas Eve in 2007 found me catching a red-eye to Kaoshiung from San Francisco, returning to the Taiwanese port city I'd left five years earlier. It was my first time meeting my cousin Freddy, who already seemed like my best ally in the pageantry of reunion. Everyone at the family dinner was in a frenzy of asking if I'm getting an MBA or a master's in engineering, dating a Taiwanese girl or a foreigner. I'd just broken up with my first boyfriend at age 22.

Freddy was mercifully disinterested in all that. He was a stocky, bearded concert promoter with a mouthful of horse-yellow teeth. Among a family of dour engineers, that counts as swashbuckling. He lavished me with anecdotes of '80s Kaohsiung, when his Eagles cover band played at tobacco-choked bars. Like me, our family barely knew how Freddy spent his days. He ran wild near the university scene until one day he returned home with a Korean wife and a gaggle of record producer friends who terrified my family.

"Guess how much I raised to invite Sigur Rós to Taiwan?" Freddy asked, obviously wanting me to ply his glamorous trade. His face was mottled from a sixth-wine flush.

"Hundred thousand USD?"

"Hundred fifty."

His wife held their baby near us. The baby suddenly insisted on the word "Apple! Apple!" and threw a slice of pear at my shoes.

"Pear," Fu said, feeding her another nibble from a Ziploc.

I should note here that many of my cousins married in their early twenties. My sister and I were then surrounded by everyone's plus-ones. People wondered why I had never brought home any dates.

"What I mean is I hang with creative types. You give off, ah, a surprising vibe." I wasn't sure what he was insinuating, but that night, he would repeat that eerie phrase many times.

He meant well, I think. There was a campus gossip's unctuousness about him — he plied secrets from you just for the joy of prescribing drunken advice. Later, in a fit of wine-soaked magnanimity, he'd tell my parents that he would never choose to have a gay son himself, personally, but it was OK if they had one. With that one idle conjecture, I'd become an entirely different person in my family's eyes.

Since the first dumb pangs of puberty, I'd rehearsed coming out to my parents with all my weapons, my darted words and humanist morals. I'd heard them wave the word "faggot" in front of countless TV shows and dinner parties like the burning end of a cigarette, and I'd stashed every homophobic thing they'd said in a vat of my private resentment against them. I was ready to fight.

But after I'd left for college an ocean away, I saw my parents so rarely that I didn't ever want to ruin our brief reunions by coming out. Besides, my mother's big 60th birthday was coming up, and I was home to celebrate that. I'll tell my parents when I found the man I wanted to marry, I thought.

A drunken word by a nosey cousin had now foiled all that.

By the time my parents and I drove home from that Christmas dinner, I was jet-lagged. I hadn't been back in Kaohsiung for two years, and my parents and I were relearning how to speak to each other in my mother tongue. I noticed, strangely, that they were in no mood to talk. Mom was 10 whiskies in. My sister shot me meaningful glances the whole time.

When we got home, my mother collapsed on the couch and asked my sister for a pitcher of water, clutching her temples.

Then my sister pulled me aside to my bedroom and told me to turn up my music, way up, so no one could hear us.

"No matter what, I think dad might be on your side," she said. "Mom, I'm not so sure of. They heard about you."

When I'd come out to my sister a year earlier, it was a perfect non-drama. But we both knew that Old World family values, like perfectly manicured lawns, take violent pesticides to maintain. My mother objected to my sister's ex-boyfriend because he was genetically disposed toward manic depression. We counted on my father being the liberal one. He had a degree from Brown and grew up in the States.

Ten years in hiding, I still didn't feel ready to rise up to that one word, all the pomp and glamour I imagined it meant, all the begging for forgiveness, the wild Wildes, too-red lips, and pious bookstore syllabuses — right then, I was just a tame, boring man sitting in his boxers on a swivel chair, dreadfully tired, wanting a water. I wasn't ready to be more than that for anyone.

I never set out in life to beg for anyone's tolerance. I didn't need that. I wanted admiration. I'd left Taiwan for San Francisco five years ago, and it suited me fine. I'd done my shame-purging with my college friends, and had no interest in revisiting those waterless years when I felt like a monster in hiding.

If my father wanted to ask, I wasn't going to lie.

In the living room, my mother drank more whisky, watching

Robocop 2

in silent devastation as I staying up until sunrise reading music blogs clogged with vicious anonymous comments.

The next morning, my dad came in with a blood pressure meter. He wanted to monitor my congenital heart condition, which my aunt had died of. He was that kind of father.

"Been cutting back on sodium in your foods?" he asked.

"Yes."

"No drinking? That's no good for your heart. If you're feeling festive, sip two beers."

"I know," I said.

"Three if it's really wild, like a birthday or someone's job promotion. As your cardiologist said, no sprinting, no diving —"

"Yes, dad."

"No heavy lifting, OK? No energy drinks —"

"OK, dad."

Beyond these walls were monsters, dragons, new-fangled dangers — growing up in America's slummier Chinatowns stayed with my father, garnished his sense of the world's malice. He kept his television remote control in its factory shrink-wrap, in case it suffered scratches.

He measured nine more times, ripping Velcro from my skinny arms, fastening them again, trying to achieve the numbers he wanted. Each fastening and unfastening of the ticklish arm band, he muttered more things about sodium. Gatorade was a death sentence, pickles, a grenade of woes. My father lived in WebMD factoids.

Then, lovingly stuffing the blood pressure meter back into its mint-condition cardboard box, he asked.

He asked in a way that so that the burden of uttering the word "gay" was his.

"Your mom didn't sleep at all."

"I know."

"Freddy wondered if you might be — if you were maybe gay. Of course not." He blinked a few times. "Are you?"

I simply had to nod. I told the truth.

My father looked indecisively at the window, considered what that meant. Then he cried. He did not know how to look good crying. I'd only seen him in tears twice, at his own father's funeral, and the time when my mother, in a fit of anger, tore apart all their wedding portraits and honeymoon photos. Old men were loose with their tears — young men too, but no one at his age weeps openly. People his age worked 70-hour weeks.

I knew, then, that this moment was not mine. I was past my worst years. This was no time to plead the loneliness of my adolescence. For him, right then, I could not add to the waterworks. I had to hold his hand through this.

We had to escape the house before my mother knew what was afoot. I grabbed blindly from my middle school wardrobe, dressing myself in 10 seconds flat and coaching him on how we'd sneak past mom. We ran past the living room and I said we were going for lunch. Dad reneged and barked, "Bicycle trip!" in a wobbly croak, for no particular reason.

"Bicycle trip?" my mom said. "Wearing that?"

I looked down to see myself dressed in baggy raver cargo pants, a T-shirt emblazoned with a cigar-smoking bulldog, the words "BIG DAWG ATTITUDE" written under his spittled jowl. My middle school shirts were three sizes bigger than my current ones. My dad faced the wall, shuddering the whole time.

We chose the first café that occurred to us. We ordered waffles in a blur, either walnut or honey. Through all this, my father remembered that he liked these flavors, and asked the waitress if he could have them.

"We still love you," he said. "But please don't tell your mother. Her 60th birthday's coming up so soon. Give me time to think it over. You know how she feels about—"

"— I know. Trust me, I do."

There is truly never a good time for these things.

And he had a point. My mother, the youngest daughter among five brothers, learned since childhood that the more she spoke like a man, the more respect she amassed. She, the devout tomboy, made a point of sneering at every effeminate woman or man she encountered on TV. Anyone who queered the ideal of masculine stoicism disgusted her. Chauvinism does strange things to women and men alike.

As if the ideal man shouldn't be. I wanted to ask him if he's ever been to a Chelsea bar and seen how "sensitive" the average gym queen was. Are you kidding me? Sensitive. And were Thomas Jefferson and President Lee Teng-hui heroic for their callousness?

He asked me if I was out to all my college friends in America. Yes.

"But Taiwan can't know about you," my father said. "We wouldn't be able to live here anymore."

"I have no intention of ever moving back," I said with the thrill of vindictiveness against the island I'd always planned on loving.

"But how about us? Your mother and I?"

And I knew: I could uproot myself, seek my authenticity, self-actualize, self-fulfill, self-assert, change my name, seek all those beautifully selfish things the American Dream offered, but in Asia, the peanut gallery of my relatives held my parents hostage. Mom and dad are too old to move to Maui and start life anew. They'd committed a lifetime to making shitty conservative friends, having stunted conservative relatives. People like me are blemishes on the family's genetic résumé. And I knew also that my mother would use my "defect" as ammunition against my father's genetics; his depressive brood; his suffering, complaining immigrant parents; his weird bachelor brothers with no dental care. My mother would use me to insult my father's family.

Everyone would use me as ammunition to attack someone else in the family.

We finished our waffles in the café, deciding that I would stage my return home for my mother's benefit.

At home, my mother's face was the sallow of old wax. By not denying the truth, I'd done this to the woman who devoted her life to me.

I couldn't exaggerate to you how much my mother's face lit up, or how much I wanted, for a shameful second, for my lie to be true. I began to tell her a story, got into the groove, told it with what could be called pizzazz, or maybe just mercy. A monthlong fling with a Korean girl became a year ("I liked her; she had a cocaine problem"). Immediately she laughed with relief.

"I wouldn't know how to deal if you were, you know,

that

," she said. "I wouldn't know where to start. All night I thought,

What now? Should we move out of town?

"

"I wouldn't disown you if you were," she said. "Not like if you married a fucking mainland Chink."

These were the people I loved. They said "Chink" and they said "faggot."

]]>https://www.buzzfeed.com/connorkemuo/why-i-stay-closeted-in-asiaSun, 06 Oct 2013 11:31:36 -0400<b>You're young enough to ditch town, burn bridges, start life anew, and move to San Francisco, but Asia still holds your parents hostage.</b>connorkemuononadult
<p><img src="https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/2013-10/enhanced/webdr02/6/1/anigif_enhanced-buzz-1196-1381038752-16.gif" width="720" height="419" alt="" /></p>
<p><small></small></p>
<p>Christmas Eve in 2007 found me catching a red-eye to Kaoshiung from San Francisco, returning to the Taiwanese port city I&#39;d left five years earlier. It was my first time meeting my cousin Freddy, who already seemed like my best ally in the pageantry of reunion. Everyone at the family dinner was in a frenzy of asking if I&#39;m getting an MBA or a master&#39;s in engineering, dating a Taiwanese girl or a foreigner. I&#39;d just broken up with my first boyfriend at age 22.</p><br /><br /><p>Freddy was mercifully disinterested in all that. He was a stocky, bearded concert promoter with a mouthful of horse-yellow teeth. Among a family of dour engineers, that counts as swashbuckling. He lavished me with anecdotes of &#39;80s Kaohsiung, when his Eagles cover band played at tobacco-choked bars. Like me, our family barely knew how Freddy spent his days. He ran wild near the university scene until one day he returned home with a Korean wife and a gaggle of record producer friends who terrified my family.</p><br /><br /><p>"Guess how much I raised to invite Sigur R&oacute;s to Taiwan?" Freddy asked, obviously wanting me to ply his glamorous trade. His face was mottled from a sixth-wine flush.</p><br /><br /><p>"Hundred thousand USD?"</p><br /><br /><p>"Hundred fifty."</p><br /><br /><p>His wife held their baby near us. The baby suddenly insisted on the word "Apple&#33; Apple&#33;" and threw a slice of pear at my shoes.</p><br /><br /><p>"Pear," Fu said, feeding her another nibble from a Ziploc.</p><br /><br /><p>I should note here that many of my cousins married in their early twenties. My sister and I were then surrounded by everyone&#39;s plus-ones. People wondered why I had never brought home any dates.</p><br /><br /><p>"I finally meet my little cousin. What a surprise," Freddy said, pouring me more wine. "You know, I have a sixth sense about people."</p><br /><br /><p>"Sixth sense?"</p><br /><br /><p>"What I mean is I hang with creative types. You give off, ah, a surprising vibe." I wasn&#39;t sure what he was insinuating, but that night, he would repeat that eerie phrase many times.</p><br /><br /><p>He meant well, I think. There was a campus gossip&#39;s unctuousness about him &mdash; he plied secrets from you just for the joy of prescribing drunken advice. Later, in a fit of wine-soaked magnanimity, he&#39;d tell my parents that he would never choose to have a gay son himself, personally, but it was OK if they had one. With that one idle conjecture, I&#39;d become an entirely different person in my family&#39;s eyes.</p><br /><br />
<p><img src="https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/2013-10/enhanced/webdr01/5/12/enhanced-buzz-21540-1380991732-2.jpg" width="720" height="406" alt="" /></p>
<p><small></small></p>
<br /><p>Since the first dumb pangs of puberty, I&#39;d rehearsed coming out to my parents with all my weapons, my darted words and humanist morals. I&#39;d heard them wave the word "faggot" in front of countless TV shows and dinner parties like the burning end of a cigarette, and I&#39;d stashed every homophobic thing they&#39;d said in a vat of my private resentment against them. I was ready to fight.</p><br /><br /><p>But after I&#39;d left for college an ocean away, I saw my parents so rarely that I didn&#39;t ever want to ruin our brief reunions by coming out. Besides, my mother&#39;s big 60th birthday was coming up, and I was home to celebrate that. I&#39;ll tell my parents when I found the man I wanted to marry, I thought.</p><br /><br /><p>A drunken word by a nosey cousin had now foiled all that.</p><br /><br /><p>By the time my parents and I drove home from that Christmas dinner, I was jet-lagged. I hadn&#39;t been back in Kaohsiung for two years, and my parents and I were relearning how to speak to each other in my mother tongue. I noticed, strangely, that they were in no mood to talk. Mom was 10 whiskies in. My sister shot me meaningful glances the whole time.</p><br /><br /><p>When we got home, my mother collapsed on the couch and asked my sister for a pitcher of water, clutching her temples.</p><br /><br /><p>Then my sister pulled me aside to my bedroom and told me to turn up my music, way up, so no one could hear us.</p><br /><br /><p>"No matter what, I think dad might be on your side," she said. "Mom, I&#39;m not so sure of. They heard about you."</p><br /><br /><p>"Heard?"</p><br /><br /><p>"That you might be gay."</p><br /><br /><p>"Might," I said.</p><br /><br /><p>"That sort of killed them," my sister said. "I can&#39;t pretend for you anymore. I&#39;m leaving tomorrow. Please take care."</p><br /><br /><p>When I&#39;d come out to my sister a year earlier, it was a perfect non-drama. But we both knew that Old World family values, like perfectly manicured lawns, take violent pesticides to maintain. My mother objected to my sister&#39;s ex-boyfriend because he was genetically disposed toward manic depression. We counted on my father being the liberal one. He had a degree from Brown and grew up in the States.</p><br /><br /><p>Ten years in hiding, I still didn&#39;t feel ready to rise up to that one word, all the pomp and glamour I imagined it meant, all the begging for forgiveness, the wild Wildes, too-red lips, and pious bookstore syllabuses &mdash; right then, I was just a tame, boring man sitting in his boxers on a swivel chair, dreadfully tired, wanting a water. I wasn&#39;t ready to be more than that for anyone.</p><br /><br /><p>I never set out in life to beg for anyone&#39;s tolerance. I didn&#39;t need that. I wanted admiration. I&#39;d left Taiwan for San Francisco five years ago, and it suited me fine. I&#39;d done my shame-purging with my college friends, and had no interest in revisiting those waterless years when I felt like a monster in hiding.</p><br /><br /><p>If my father wanted to ask, I wasn&#39;t going to lie.</p><br /><br /><p>In the living room, my mother drank more whisky, watching</p><i>Robocop 2</i><p>in silent devastation as I staying up until sunrise reading music blogs clogged with vicious anonymous comments.</p><br /><br />
<p><img src="https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/2013-10/enhanced/webdr02/5/12/enhanced-buzz-28744-1380990427-16.jpg" width="720" height="399" alt="" /></p>
<p><small></small></p>
<br /><br /><p>The next morning, my dad came in with a blood pressure meter. He wanted to monitor my congenital heart condition, which my aunt had died of. He was that kind of father.</p><br /><br /><p>"Been cutting back on sodium in your foods?" he asked.</p><br /><br /><p>"Yes."</p><br /><br /><p>"No drinking? That&#39;s no good for your heart. If you&#39;re feeling festive, sip two beers."</p><br /><br /><p>"I know," I said.</p><br /><br /><p>"Three if it&#39;s really wild, like a birthday or someone&#39;s job promotion. As your cardiologist said, no sprinting, no diving &mdash;"</p><br /><br /><p>"Yes, dad."</p><br /><br /><p>"No heavy lifting, OK? No energy drinks &mdash;"</p><br /><br /><p>"OK, dad."</p><br /><br /><p>Beyond these walls were monsters, dragons, new-fangled dangers &mdash; growing up in America&#39;s slummier Chinatowns stayed with my father, garnished his sense of the world&#39;s malice. He kept his television remote control in its factory shrink-wrap, in case it suffered scratches.</p><br /><br /><p>My systolic was 175, diastolic 90 &mdash; an old man&#39;s numbers.</p><br /><br /><p>"Looks like you&#39;re getting worse," he said. "Your heart&#39;s getting worse."</p><br /><br /><p>It wasn&#39;t. My heart was leaping. I tried to calm myself.</p><br /><br /><p>He measured nine more times, ripping Velcro from my skinny arms, fastening them again, trying to achieve the numbers he wanted. Each fastening and unfastening of the ticklish arm band, he muttered more things about sodium. Gatorade was a death sentence, pickles, a grenade of woes. My father lived in WebMD factoids.</p><br /><br /><p>Then, lovingly stuffing the blood pressure meter back into its mint-condition cardboard box, he asked.</p><br /><br /><p>He asked in a way that so that the burden of uttering the word "gay" was his.</p><br /><br /><p>"Your mom didn&#39;t sleep at all."</p><br /><br /><p>"I know."</p><br /><br /><p>"Freddy wondered if you might be &mdash; if you were maybe gay. Of course not." He blinked a few times. "Are you?"</p><br /><br /><p>I simply had to nod. I told the truth.</p><br /><br /><p>My father looked indecisively at the window, considered what that meant. Then he cried. He did not know how to look good crying. I&#39;d only seen him in tears twice, at his own father&#39;s funeral, and the time when my mother, in a fit of anger, tore apart all their wedding portraits and honeymoon photos. Old men were loose with their tears &mdash; young men too, but no one at his age weeps openly. People his age worked 70-hour weeks.</p><br /><br /><p>I knew, then, that this moment was not mine. I was past my worst years. This was no time to plead the loneliness of my adolescence. For him, right then, I could not add to the waterworks. I had to hold his hand through this.</p><br /><br /><p>We had to escape the house before my mother knew what was afoot. I grabbed blindly from my middle school wardrobe, dressing myself in 10 seconds flat and coaching him on how we&#39;d sneak past mom. We ran past the living room and I said we were going for lunch. Dad reneged and barked, "Bicycle trip&#33;" in a wobbly croak, for no particular reason.</p><br /><br /><p>"Bicycle trip?" my mom said. "Wearing that?"</p><br /><br /><p>I looked down to see myself dressed in baggy raver cargo pants, a T-shirt emblazoned with a cigar-smoking bulldog, the words "BIG DAWG ATTITUDE" written under his spittled jowl. My middle school shirts were three sizes bigger than my current ones. My dad faced the wall, shuddering the whole time.</p><br /><br /><p>We chose the first caf&eacute; that occurred to us. We ordered waffles in a blur, either walnut or honey. Through all this, my father remembered that he liked these flavors, and asked the waitress if he could have them.</p><br /><br /><p>"We still love you," he said. "But please don&#39;t tell your mother. Her 60th birthday&#39;s coming up so soon. Give me time to think it over. You know how she feels about&mdash;"</p><br /><br /><p>"&mdash; I know. Trust me, I do."</p><br /><br /><p>There is truly never a good time for these things.</p><br /><br /><p>And he had a point. My mother, the youngest daughter among five brothers, learned since childhood that the more she spoke like a man, the more respect she amassed. She, the devout tomboy, made a point of sneering at every effeminate woman or man she encountered on TV. Anyone who queered the ideal of masculine stoicism disgusted her. Chauvinism does strange things to women and men alike.</p><br /><br /><p>"Your cousin Freddy said you&#39;re too sensitive," my father said. "Mom always said that too. You&#39;re too sensitive for a man."</p><br /><br /><p>As if the ideal man shouldn&#39;t be. I wanted to ask him if he&#39;s ever been to a Chelsea bar and seen how "sensitive" the average gym queen was. Are you kidding me? Sensitive. And were Thomas Jefferson and President Lee Teng-hui heroic for their callousness?</p><br /><br /><p>He asked me if I was out to all my college friends in America. Yes.</p><br /><br /><p>"But Taiwan can&#39;t know about you," my father said. "We wouldn&#39;t be able to live here anymore."</p><br /><br /><p>"I have no intention of ever moving back," I said with the thrill of vindictiveness against the island I&#39;d always planned on loving.</p><br /><br /><p>"But how about us? Your mother and I?"</p><br /><br /><p>And I knew: I could uproot myself, seek my authenticity, self-actualize, self-fulfill, self-assert, change my name, seek all those beautifully selfish things the American Dream offered, but in Asia, the peanut gallery of my relatives held my parents hostage. Mom and dad are too old to move to Maui and start life anew. They&#39;d committed a lifetime to making shitty conservative friends, having stunted conservative relatives. People like me are blemishes on the family&#39;s genetic r&eacute;sum&eacute;. And I knew also that my mother would use my "defect" as ammunition against my father&#39;s genetics; his depressive brood; his suffering, complaining immigrant parents; his weird bachelor brothers with no dental care. My mother would use me to insult my father&#39;s family.</p><br /><br /><p>Everyone would use me as ammunition to attack someone else in the family.</p><br /><br /><p>We finished our waffles in the caf&eacute;, deciding that I would stage my return home for my mother&#39;s benefit.</p><br /><br /><p>At home, my mother&#39;s face was the sallow of old wax. By not denying the truth, I&#39;d done this to the woman who devoted her life to me.</p><br /><br /><p>So I denied it, as my father and sister begged me to.</p><br /><br /><p>"I heard what Freddy said about me &mdash; completely untrue. Why, are my jeans too skinny or what?"</p><br /><br /><p>I couldn&#39;t exaggerate to you how much my mother&#39;s face lit up, or how much I wanted, for a shameful second, for my lie to be true. I began to tell her a story, got into the groove, told it with what could be called pizzazz, or maybe just mercy. A monthlong fling with a Korean girl became a year ("I liked her; she had a cocaine problem"). Immediately she laughed with relief.</p><br /><br /><p>"I wouldn&#39;t know how to deal if you were, you know,</p><i>that</i><p>," she said. "I wouldn&#39;t know where to start. All night I thought,</p><i>What now? Should we move out of town?</i><p>"</p><br /><br /><p>"I wouldn&#39;t disown you if you were," she said. "Not like if you married a fucking mainland Chink."</p><br /><br /><p>These were the people I loved. They said "Chink" and they said "faggot."</p><br /><br />
<p><img src="https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/2013-10/enhanced/webdr06/5/13/enhanced-buzz-7142-1380995257-10.jpg" width="720" height="486" alt="" /></p>
<p><small></small></p>
nonadultnonadultnonadultnonadult